


(I love you)

by softly (alexenglish)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, everyone is from California, implied H/L (casual)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 00:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/softly
Summary: There should be a word for a threat that is also a promise.  Because that is what I want you to hold me down and do.





	(I love you)

**Author's Note:**

> [a softer world project](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/asofterworld)

 

The ocean is discontent. Or Zayn is. It’s hard to tell some days, where his energy ends the energy of his surroundings begins. There’s always a steady flow through him and around him, he’s just a conduit, the path of least resistance. He feels everything.

The pot dulls it, makes him able to parse out emotions, separate energies. It makes it easier to shut off the endless movement that accompanies the Earth, every living being. Feeling every connection isn’t easy, but the awareness lends him intuition, allows him to _be_. He’s malleable in every sense, shaping to his environment.

He’s ocean waves; Louis, when he howls at the moon, head bowed back; the soft cadence of Harry’s voice when he’s stoned. He’s the sharp, chasing sound of Niall’s laughter after he finishes up a set; the settling way Griff hums whilst he’s working; an inhale and groan as Gigi and Adwoa shotgun. He’s everything and nothing.

It makes it hard to define boundaries. The mess of feelings and emotions and energies used to be overwhelming, but now he lets the sensations wash over him and then lets them go, like a slow wave breaking over the sand, the tide rolling back.

Today, it’s a rushing, and buzzing, a franticness he usually doesn’t feel. Especially in this little pocket of beach where the energy is usually low, soothing. It’s spiking in his chest, sharp and inexplicably aching. The feeling makes him think something is coming, like he’s hanging over a precipice.

It’s not a good feeling.

He stands up, wipes the sand off his trunks, and tries to figure out what the roughness of the waves means; especially in contrast with the cloudless sky and sun. Maybe the ocean is revolting against the moon.

 _You don’t control me_.

Except that it does. The moon controls the tide, and the emotions of those easily influenced by its pull. Zayn can always feel the full moon, it’s like a live wire under his skin. It makes him want to stomp and scream. Every feeling at the top of his lungs.

He’s used to his energy being plucked from his chest at those times, but tonight is a waning gibbous and doesn’t have any influence over him or the tide. There’s nothing in the air that suggests he’s right about impending doom, so he just drags himself back to the Styles house and roots around his bag for his single hitter.

His phone is blinking a notification at him, but he shoves it to the bottom of his bag, fingers grabbing at his pipe. He’s already too connected, too antsy. The idea of conversing with anyone through text message is making his skin crawl.

Harry will be here soon. Louis is almost done at the music store. They’ll all smoke when they both decide to crash land on the beach. Maybe Louis will try to conquer the unruly waves, but nose dive when he looks back to see if Harry is watching. The underlying competitive streak Louis seems to have with Harry absolutely extends to surfing; a thing Louis does very well, that Harry does not.

A thing Zayn does not do at all, considering he still can’t swim. He is one with the ocean, the ocean would desperately love to be one with him. In his lungs, filling him up, sweeping him away.

The pot burns Zayn’s chest, bringing back the tight feeling, the edginess. The exact opposite of what it’s supposed to do. Zayn doesn’t understand why everything feels contrary today, of all days.

It’s better to ignore, brush off, not let it get to him. There are more important things to think about, like food. Harry’s probably almost there, but Louis usually skates. That gives Zayn at least another 20 minutes to run down and grab a burrito from the gas station.

The pink board is under the deck, so he tugs on his orange Converse and grabs his knapsack, starting up the gentle path that leads around the house to the driveway. The buzzing feeling is back, breaking through his high. It’s making Zayn uncomfortable, unsettled by its insistence.

The sound of an engine distracts him, Harry’s ridiculous red Mercedes Benz. Zayn grins, eyes on the darkly tinted glass. The passenger door opens first and, inexplicably, Louis spills out.

There’s a smug expression on his face, corner of his mouth tugging up the tiniest amount, teasing at a smile. Zayn just _knows_.

Now he understands why everything feels contrary, today of all days.

His gaze sweeps over Louis, the messy hair and the ruddy cheeks. There’s a couple of bruises on his neck that weren’t there morning, and Zayn can barely breathe around the ache in his chest -- sour and hot and horribly jealous, inadequate, unwanted --

Their eyes meet as he steps closer. It’s a miracle that he keeps his face neutral, his grip on his skateboard loose. Louis knows, though, because Louis always knows.

“Hey, babes,” Louis says, slowly, smile coming to his lips. The corners are tight, a little too forced. A little too much pep. “Harry gave me a ride.”

Zayn’s veins fizzle and pop. Anger. That’s what this is. _Anger_.

Very suddenly, Zayn doesn’t recognize Louis. This isn’t the boy with big blue eyes and the messy hair and the wild thoughts who insisted they run away together. A whim, summer silliness that was all about _them_. About best friends, and getting away, and being _together_.

 _Being together_ , what hopes he had for that. How naive it was for Zayn to hope that being here would make Louis fall in love with him finally -- _finally_.

This was all about getting away and being whoever they wanted to be, for as long as they wanted to be it, but it feels like they’ve gone too far. Like _Louis_ has gone to far. He’s nearly unrecognizable in his nonchalance -- sex swept, and smug, and every inch the rich boy’s fuck toy.

The thought curls meanly in Zayn’s head, a viper waiting to strike.

People are seasons, they change, but Zayn is suddenly made very aware of the yawning chasm that’s between them -- that has been for awhile now. It’s his fault. His feelings have been blossoming in the airy beach climate. They’ve settled on his sleeve, made themselves present in his words and his touches. He is so mortifyingly transparent, and instead of bringing them together, it’s been pushing them apart.

Suddenly, Zayn feels too stoned, too dumb, and too small compared to them both.

“Sweet,” Zayn says, raising his eyebrow, ignoring the hard pounding of his runaway heart. Their eyes are locked, like a standoff of sorts. The hue of Louis’ cheeks are going a deeper red, like they do when he’s embarrassed or angry (or being fucked, maybe -- in the car, really? Or was it at work? Or did they take a detour to Louis and Zayn’s apartment? Fuck in Louis’ bed?). “Faster that way. This the first time?”

“No,” Louis admits, eyes darting away, looking at Harry. Zayn can’t look at Harry, doesn’t know what he’ll do or say if he looks at Harry. Louis’ eyes slide back to Zayn’s face like they never left. They’re sharp, blue, far too perceptive. “It’s happened a few times.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, knocking his board to the ground. It clatters loudly on the cement. An avil, a gavel, hard in its judgement. There’s a numb feeling spiralling out from his sternum. An itch starts up under his skin: _run, run, run_. “You just caught me, actually. I have work.”

The lie comes with distressing ease, without guilt. A vocal flinch, a reflex to protect himself.

“Dude, seriously? Zayn --” Louis’ voice does that high pitched thing that it does when he wants to argue. When he wants to be _angry_.

“Gotta go be a slave to the bourgeoisie,” Zayn says mockingly, as he hops on his board and takes off, sliding into the street as Harry calls his name,

“Zayn!”

Confused, worried. There’s no way Zayn can resist, he looks back. Harry is frowning, utterly lost. He probably has no idea what just transpired. Zayn decides he doesn’t care, jerking his eyes straight ahead again.

Riding helps. The wind, the vibration of the board underneath him. It almost manages to distract him from the confusing rush of his thoughts. Anger burns through him, and he hates it. It’s the most violent feeling he can muster, and it terrifies him; it’s not an emotion he can ever take kindly to, but it’s curling up at the base of his spine as if to say, _honey, I’m home_.

The worst part is that he’s been dying for Louis and Harry to get to a point where they’re civil. They’ve been entertaining each other on Zayn’s behalf for ages, but it’s been tense. Different sides of the track and all that -- punk rock mets Rocky Point. Class and interest are divides Zayn conquers easier than Louis does, so it’s been a chore, but.

He was hoping they’d find something they had in common.

Sex is common ground, Zayn supposes.

And now, Zayn doesn’t know what he thinks or feels. All he has are these flickering images of Harry and Louis fucking -- tearing into each other, marking each other up. Passionate, possessive, all consuming in the way that Zayn knows both of them are.

Zayn doesn’t fit into that scene. Not in his head, not in real life.

It’s been his goal to merge them, to guide them together, but they’ve done that on their own. His task is completed without him completing it, rendering him irrelevant.

Zayn’s mind is reeling, there’s too much static. He doesn't emote like this -- in this frustratingly blind way where he can't parse out what he's truly feeling. It's like all the strings are tangled and when he thinks he has a grasp on it, it leads to a knotted nothing.

He wishes he had stayed, asked them for an explanation. Maybe that would have made him feel better, if he understood, if he knew the details -- how it started, why. How they feel about each other.

Instead, he’s skating away and what -- did Louis stay with Harry?

That thought makes his mouth go bitter, jaw tightening, even though it _shouldn't_ _fucking_ _matter_.

He almost wishes they followed him, that they got in the car and insisted he came back. It wouldn’t take any persuading, because he wants to turn around, he wants answers. But, he doesn’t, just keeps riding, keeps stoking the hurt by thinking about it.

Zayn shakes his head, trying to clear it. He feels like a runaway train, a catastrophe waiting to happen. He drops off the curb, and skates too close to a car, dragging his fingertips across the hot metal as it passes him. The car behind it swerves and honks at him, like he would have let it hit him.

Heart pounding, he flips them off and weaves through more traffic, adrenaline spiking as he dodges bumpers. It takes him out of his head. The tight feeling in his veins disappears as he tries not to get run over, horns blaring as he skates over the dashed lines, dipping into the lanes. It’s a quick rush of adrenaline. He doesn’t have to think or feel, he just has to keep going.

A car nudges him just right as he’s about to get clear of traffic, and he falls. The board slips out from under him, pitching him onto the curb. The outside of his arm slides on the hot sidewalk, stinging, tearing. The pink deck disappears under the car tire, cracking in two with a sound like a shotgun.

Zayn lies back on the hot sidewalk, and laughs until he can’t breathe. There’s blood on his arm, gravel in the scrape. He feels hollowed out, helpless in a way he’s not used to.

He lies there on the sidewalk, in the sun watching the orange and red swirl behind his closed eyelids. He should get up. There are people around, cars. He doesn’t care, not really. He doesn’t feel like he’ll care about anything again.

That’s melodramatic, Zayn thinks, picking himself up as soon as he hears the _clack-clack clack-clack_ of skateboard wheels against sidewalk divides. It’s Louis. Of course it’s Louis. That is inevitable.

“Christ, what the fuck happened to you,” Louis says, sliding to a stop. His toe on the board, popping it into one hand smoothly as he reaches for Zayn’s injured arm with the other.

There’s blood down Zayn’s wrist.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Zayn says, flinching away. A step backwards, obvious in the way he’s avoiding Louis’ touch. He avoids Louis’ eyes, too. Avoids the thoughts surging to the front of his mind.

The two halves of Zayn’s board are in traffic. He can’t bring himself to wait until the coast is clear to grab them up. Someone will pick them up eventually. Zayn wipes his arm off haphazardly with the hem of his shirt and walks in the direction opposite Louis.

Louis follows.

“What the fuck was that, Zayn?” Louis demands, jogging to catch up with Zayn, insinuating himself close to Zayn under the guise of moving for someone passing on the sidewalk. His shirt drags harshly against Zayn’s arm, making him hiss and recoil.

“Fuck off,” Zayn grunts when Louis grabs him and pushes him off the sidewalk, against the warm stucco of a brightly color mini-mart. People don’t pay them any attention, just two grimy boys having it out by an inoperable payphone.

“C’mon,” Louis says quietly. His face is still all hard lines, defensive.

It’s SoCal in the middle of summer, there aren’t any clouds. The sun is harsh and unforgiving, making them both frown and squint. There’s sweat at Louis’ hairline, glistening on his neck. Zayn’s heart is beating so hard it might as well skip out of his chest.

Zayn is surprisingly sober, or feels like it. It’s probably the adrenaline, the emotional waves crashing over his shoreline, the shatter of his glass heart as he looks at the bruise sucked over Louis’ pulse.

Zayn knows Louis has a sensitive neck. One of those facts he knows from watching Eleanor with Louis back in high school, her grin pressed to Louis’ throat as she teased him. Something he’s kept to himself, something he’s thought about a lot -- pressing his mouth to Louis’ skin, making him squirm.

Zayn looks at the ground.

“C’mon,” Louis says again, tone coaxing. Gentleness digging under Zayn’s skin more painfully than harsh words would. If Louis is unkind, Zayn can be unkind. If Louis is tender, Zayn has nothing to do with all this unpleasant energy burning steady in his chest. “What was that, Zayn?”

“Nothing,” Zayn lies. That reflex again.

Louis doesn’t believe him. Zayn can read it in the tight clench of his jaw, the way his eyes narrow in distrust. The two of them don’t do this. They don’t wall themselves off from each other, they don’t hide from each other. They don’t omit truths. They don’t lie.

“You ran away,” Louis says, stepping closer to Zayn, knowing this is an intimacy he’s allowed. Being closer, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the heat coming off of him -- from skating, from the sun.

Close enough for Zayn to reach out and grab ahold of the front of Louis’ tank top gently.

“Tell me why,” Louis says, quietly.

 _Because I am the ocean_ , Zayn thinks, choking on his heart. His emotions are so obvious -- they’re like blood on his hands, on his shirt, all fucking over. It’s all over, and Zayn can’t do anything to stop it. He is a conduit for this messy energy, he is a live wire. _And you are the moon that calls to me_.

Zayn tugs on Louis’ top and leans in at the same time, mouth catching on Louis’ lightly. He wants to lick and bite and demand and _devour_ , but he doesn’t have the right to so he kisses Louis gently, lips sticky.

“What?” Louis inhales sharply, trips over the word on the exhale.

Zayn slides his hand up and around the back of Louis’ neck, fitting his palm there to keep Louis close; to keep kissing him. It’s easy. Far easier than Zayn thought it would be, easier than Zayn could have ever imagined.

“That’s why,” Zayn says, when they part. Louis is watching him seriously, blue eyes dark with something that makes Zayn want to shiver. He presses his shoulder blades into the warm stucco behind him instead, embarrassment prickling his skin. He’s warm all over, self-conscious in his desire.

“You’re an _asshole_ ,” Louis says, after a moment, words sharp enough to do away with the quiet hesitation of the kiss.

Before Zayn can protest, Louis is surging forward, pressing himself against Zayn roughly. His hands curl around Zayn’s upper arms, holding him in place as their mouths meet, but this has none of the tenderness of their first kiss; it’s rough and bruising, and Zayn goes impossibly soft for it.

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Louis says, between one kiss and another. His hands slide off and down, grabbing at Zayn’s waist, drawn him in and in and in; their bodies line up deliciously as they kiss, slick and deep and dizzying.

The riptide of emotion in Zayn’s chest settles into something frighteningly calm.

“You could have _told me_ ,” Louis says, biting at Zayn’s bottom lip. His hold on Zayn is so tight, like he can’t stand the idea of Zayn slipping away.

The noise Louis makes when Zayn bites at his neck is delicious. It drops low and satisfied when Zayn sucks at the bruise Harry put there, deepening it. When he pulls back, it’s dark and sore looking. Zayn presses a kiss to it, a whisper of a thing.

“I love you,” he confesses. They’ve said it to each other so many times before and he’s always meant it like this, but Louis knows what Zayn really means now -- _finally_. “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was a Zourry prompt but it this little snapshot of it didn't allow for that, so just imagine them figuring it out and negotiating their relationship down the line in a way that is satisfying to all parties involved. 
> 
>  
> 
> [reblog on tumblr!](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/172782976532/i-love-you-zaynlouis-3k)


End file.
